


Portraits

by Sunnyrea



Series: The War [30]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: 1780, Historical, Lams - Freeform, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-09 01:41:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15256626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: Alexander Hamilton travels to visit John Laurens in Philadelphia where Laurens remains on parole after British capture. The two men confront the realities before them of Hamilton's engagement and where they go from there.[Part of a series but can be read as a stand alone story]





	Portraits

**Author's Note:**

> If you have not seen them: [Hamilton's Peale portrait](https://www.artsy.net/artwork/charles-willson-peale-portrait-of-alexander-hamilton-1757-1804) and [Laurens' Peale portrait](http://npg.si.edu/object/npg_NPG.2009.111)
> 
> So, there is also art related to this story now from the lovely TempleAIT: [Enjoy](http://templeait.tumblr.com/post/179322120215/the-second-commission-for-sunnyrea-for-which-i)

Philadelphia during the fall months creates a more pleasant atmosphere that any other time of the year in Alexander Hamilton’s view. He may be thinking of it from the point of view of any city, but fall has none of the penned in heat or stink of the spring and summer nor the dangers and windy cold from the nearby water of the winter months. Philadelphia in fall feels the most perfect a city can be with cool air, less people with the social season yet to begin and, best of all, patriot control.

Now, Hamilton rides in an open carriage along the brick street with an eye to house numbers. The last time he was in Philadelphia, he accompanied General Washington to the home of Henry Laurens for their stay while conferring with Congress. The house he rides toward at present again lies under the name of Henry Laurens but houses John Laurens, who remains confined to the state of Pennsylvania during his British parole after his capture at the battle of Charles Town. Laurens has been away from Hamilton now for nearly a year fighting in the southern campaign and then ostensibly under guard since May. Many crucial events have occurred during these eleven months since Hamilton has set eyes on Laurens.

Hamilton reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his small portrait of Elizabeth Schuyler, his fiancée. He smiles at the likeness, her dark hair and modest smile. If only her eyes could be more readily seen but the portrait is of a size to fit easily in his palm and does not do her as much justice as he would prefer.

Hamilton breathes in slowly. “He will listen.” He runs a finger around the thin frame of the miniature. “And when you two meet he will wholly understand.” Hamilton blows out his breath again. “He must.”

The carriage turns down another numbered street in the easy grid of Philadelphia then stops at the corner. Hamilton puts the portrait away quickly with an odd flash of guilt in his chest.

“Here, sir,” the driver says as he opens the door for Hamilton.

Hamilton puts a hand to his hat as he descends to the street once more. The house is not the same as the one rented by Henry Laurens the year past. It appears smaller, though still three stories high, not so wide as the former Laurens abode, brick with white paint on the wood about the windows. Hamilton pulls his small bag from the body of the carriage while the driver attends to his one trunk tied to the back. He should be here only a week and attempted to travel light as the army does. Hamilton steps up to the black door and raps the knocker hard. His stomach feels like a vice.

When Hamilton moves his hand up to knock a second time, the door opens. A short woman with messy dark hair, mostly pulled back, and an indeterminate skin tone stands on the other side. She glances once at the driver and trunk behind Hamilton then nods. “Good morning, sir.”

“I am Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Hamilton.”

“Ah, yes.” Her mouth pinches slightly then she pulls the door back and stands to the side. “Welcome, sir.”

Hamilton steps inside, the man following just behind him to drop the trunk near the wall. The woman takes Hamilton's hat as he removes it.

“Allow me to fetch the master of the house,” she says.

Hamilton pays the driver absently as he looks around at the green wallpaper, a pattern that reminds him of woven baskets. All the rooms before him lie on the left, the wall on the right shared with its neighboring house. A large mirror hangs on the wall to the right above a small table where a dish for visiting cards sits. Hamilton puts his travel bag down on the table as he hears the front door close behind him with the retreat of the driver. There are no portraits or other decoration on the walls. The room nearest Hamilton holds some basic furnishing as any public parlor, two chairs near the wall flanking either end of a sideboard, two more cushioned chairs nearer the fireplace with a circular table between them. Some thins vases with blue glaze adorn the inset shelves on either side of the hearth. Further ahead of him, Hamilton sees the woman speaking at the entrance to what must be the house’s private parlor. She says something low, which Hamilton cannot hear. She shakes her head, glancing back toward Hamilton then into the parlor once more. Hamilton finds himself suddenly worried, yet he could not say why.

Then the woman backs up quickly and a man steps from the parlor into the hall. His hair appears shorter, long enough only for half of his hair to be pulled back in a queue while the lower layer hangs flat, tucked behind his ears. Brown predominates his dress, dark mahogany for the coat and breeches, while more of a beige for his waistcoat. Hamilton notices a darker brown brocade of the waistcoat but very little else to distinguish his dress. The cut looks thin as he walks toward Hamilton, his body leaner than Hamilton remembers. When he stops in front of Hamilton, a slight shadow of hair over his chin, Hamilton realizes this is the first time he has seen Laurens out of uniform since the day they met.

Laurens nods once. “Hamilton, hello.”

“Hello.” Hamilton smiles back.

“You look well.”

Hamilton nods. “Thank you, and you.”

Laurens makes a ‘hmm’ noise, smiling briefly before his expression returns to polite. He glances at the trunk. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

Hamilton looks at him in some confusion. “I had thought…”

“Yes, of course,” Laurens says quickly, “You must stay here. Nora,” Laurens turns minutely to the woman, his voice low. “Could you take his bags up to the second bedroom?”

She gives him an odd look. “The… second one, sir?”

“Yes, it’s fine.”

She nods then swoops around the two of them, grabbing Hamilton’s writing bag from the table and lifting his trunk with ease. Hamilton sees her flash them both a considering look as she walks past behind them and up the main stairs.

“Strong that one,” Hamilton remarks.

Laurens tilts his head down as if looking back though he does not actually turn. “Yes.” Then he looks to Hamilton once more, clearing his throat. “Shall I show you the house?”

Hamilton hesitates. The moment reminds him very much of Morristown from nearly a year ago. He wants to grip Laurens’ hands, ask after his health, touch his shorter hair, make that stiff expression leave his face. Instead, Hamilton says, “Please.”

Laurens gestures to their left. “The parlor here and in the back as you may see. We may sit down here later.” Laurens pauses, tilting his head. “There is a garden in the back. Not well kept, I must admit.” He looks at Hamilton with the flash of a smile – no, not a smile, more a pull of his lips. Then Laurens moves to the stairs. “There is a room for entertaining above.”

“I remember in your father’s previous residence,” Hamilton says as he follows Laurens up the stairs, glancing at the large mirror at the turn in the stairs. He sees a long crack in the bottom right corner, a few smaller cracks spider webbing out from it.

“Yes,” Laurens replies as they reach the second floor. “It is similar, smaller to be sure.” Laurens gestures ahead toward the front of the house and to their right. “It would do well for a dance or social gathering.”

“You do not entertain?” Hamilton asks.

Laurens shakes his head. “I know few… it is not… no, I do not.”

Hamilton nods, realizing the error of his question. Henry Laurens may have had relations and friends in this city with Congress but what of John Laurens?

Hamilton peers into the door to the right, only open a crack. He sees cloth coverings over a table and some chairs along the wall. Curtains cover the three side windows and the two at the front of the house, only one allowing a crack of light into the room. He turns back to ask after the other room at the front of the house, possibly another parlor or study, but Laurens climbs the stairs to the third floor before Hamilton has opportunity. Hamilton follows quickly after Laurens. At the turn of the stairs here, he notices a darker portion of the paint on the wall in the shape of some frame no longer in place. Then he stops at the head of the stairs, Laurens stands in the door to what must be the main bedroom at the front of the house, two other doors to his right.

“Three,” Hamilton says to himself. It should be no surprise that a man with means available, even under parole, should reside in a home with three bedrooms.

Laurens looks back at him and steps out onto the landing again. He gestures to the room he just left. “Mine.” He smiles again in that way he has since Hamilton arrived, as if Laurens is unsure he should or even can. Then he gestures to the other two doors. “And these. I had thought to put you here.” He points to the one closer to his own. “But either can be made up if you wish.”

“I should wish to see yours,” Hamilton says. Laurens face twitches in a strange way and Hamilton curtails himself. “If I may?”

Laurens slips some hair back behind his ear with one hand and nods. “Yes.”

They walk into the larger bedroom, Hamilton close behind Laurens. He has not touched Laurens yet and his hands suddenly itch to hold Laurens, touch his hand and waist. The room has little furnishings just as the rooms below – pale blue linens and hangings on the bed, a side table near it, a desk under one of the front windows, closet doors on either side of the fireplace and an open door leading to the second bedroom. It is that open door, the subtle yet obvious invitation, which allows Hamilton’s shoulders to ease back, for his own smile to return.

Hamilton walks into the room toward the end of the bed where Laurens stands. He stops in front of Laurens. “My dear Jack.”

Laurens shuts his eyes for a brief moment then opens them again. He breathes out slowly. “Alexander.”

“I am so glad to see you.”

“And I you.”

“I must say –”

“Sir?” Hamilton and Laurens turn their heads to Nora in the doorway. “Your pardon, sir, but…”

“Yes.” Laurens walks around Hamilton and steps out into the hall with the small woman. Hamilton waits where he stands until he hears the two of them walking down the stairs.

“Well,” Hamilton mutters to himself. Some matter of the house, no doubt, or Hamilton’s own stay. 

Hamilton glances around the room. He sees some books stacked on the desk along with a number of writing supplies. He walks to the desk, sees a letter which appears to be from Tilghman. He reads the spines of the books, Chaucer and John Locke. Hamilton turns around again to stare at the bed. He thinks of Eliza and their nuptials only a month away. Then he grits his teeth feeling himself a traitor to think of such in Laurens’ room. 

He steps closer to the bed, his hand trailing up and over the hangings and one bed post. Then he steps to the side table. A wood box sits on top, flush with the wall. Carvings of leaves and twisting vines mark the top of the box. Hamilton touches the carvings, his fingers slipping over the metal latch. Hamilton knows he should not, that it would be an invasion of some privacy, but he also believes he knows what lies inside. Hamilton opens the box. Inside lay folded letters, the paper worn and the creases less distinct. He shifts the pile around, lifting edges of cracked wax, recognizing dates. Each letter inside the box is from Hamilton.

Voices filter up from downstairs, one feminine in cadence. Hamilton cannot understand the words. He walks around the bed and toward the open door to the adjoining bedroom. Hamilton takes two steps into the second bedroom, two windows along one wall, the paint white and the bed another shade of blue parallel to the door, his trunk beside it with his other bag on top. Yet it is the dressing table and what sits beside it that commands Hamilton’s attention immediately. On the chair beside the table, against the wall, lies Laurens’ uniform.

Hamilton walks closer and looks at the uniform. It appears almost new made clean, as though some washerwoman worked tirelessly on old stains as well as new. And perhaps one did, for Hamilton knows Laurens’ uniform coat to be aged some years and not a perfect buff or blue any longer. Yet no blood stains or dirt can be seen. Hamilton steps closer, touches the folded breeches. He wonders at them being new in truth they appear so pristine, but the feeling of the cloth is not that of a tailor shop; he knows well enough the difference between worn cloth and fresh. This is indeed Laurens’ same uniform – coat crisp on the chair, breeches and waistcoat and shirt folded into perfect squares on the seat, even a pair of stockings on top of the pile. Laurens’ boots stand just in front of the chair, as if the man sat down wearing the whole then disappeared leaving the clothing behind. Perhaps he did.

“Hamilton?”

Hamilton turns to Laurens standing in the door, a jug of water and some small linens in his hand. “Should you wish to refresh from your journey.” Then his eye creeps around Hamilton to the uniform on the chair. He breathes in and out once through his nose then looks back to Hamilton.

“Your uniform,” Hamilton says lamely.

Laurens nods once then steps into the room. “Yes.” 

He carries the jug and cloths, laying them both beside the washbasin in the window. Hamilton watches Laurens for a moment as he lines the cloths up along the end of the windowsill, touching the corners until they appear parallel. He turns the jug around in the washbasin so the handle matches the line of the window as well. He does not look at Hamilton.

“Is it so for your exchange or have you had it here all this time?” Hamilton asks.

“Your wash basin?”

“Your uniform.”

Laurens turns then toward Hamilton, glances quickly at the uniform then to Hamilton once more. He grasps his hands behind his back. “I did not wish to forget who I was.”

Hamilton frowns. “Who you are is not solely a soldier.”

Laurens huffs. “Is it not? Is that not what I want to be, who I wanted to be all that time?”

“So, you left it there to remind you of this?”

“Yes.”

“You did not need to.”

“I did,” Laurens says sharply.

Hamilton presses his lips together tightly and shakes his head once, the glint of the buttons in the corner of his eye. “Why should you torture yourself so?” Laurens looks away again and does not answer. Hamilton tries once more. “Your duty and service would not change for it staring at you in this room each day.” Laurens’ eyes shift back to Hamilton. “I could not imagine you would forget the battles you have fought and we waiting for you to return.”

Laurens’ head dips in some manner of ascent. “Perhaps but days can be long and at times I found myself… forgetting… forgetting the cause beyond these stifling walls. With everything else kept from me,” he gestures with just a slight flick of two fingers toward the chair, “at least I had that.”

“Your uniform.”

“My reminder.”

Hamilton glances out at the hall. “And my letters.” Laurens gazes at him. “You had my letters,” Hamilton emphasizes.

Laurens nods once. “Yes.”

Hamilton steps closer to the door, feeling like he should walk back to Laurens’ bedroom to retrieve the letters, show them in hand because it seems now as though a piece of Laurens is lost, is perhaps sitting in that box beside his bed with the Laurens Hamilton felt he wrote to trapped inside.

Hamilton turns around nearly in the doorway to the hall to look at Laurens, arms at his side, smaller somehow in this still small room. “I had hoped they would provide you some comfort here.”

Laurens smiles, a quick uptick at the corners. “They did so.” He clears his throat once. “At times.”

Hamilton thinks of some the words he wrote, some harsh and without patience, wishing to stay in the joy of his Elizabeth, her bright eyes and soft figure, his future delight becoming closer for when she would be wholly his; instead of needing to console this man who should be strong enough and not complain so of idleness or woe and bring Hamilton’s spirits low in manners of love when they should remain high. Seeing Laurens standing here now, months Hamilton realizes where Laurens must have lived very much alone and actionless, a state in which he knows Laurens does not function well. He has only ever known Laurens in their camps, at headquarters, within the framework of their fight. Hamilton regrets words he wrote. 

Hamilton turns to the door and pushes it softly closed. He looks back to Laurens. Then Hamilton takes three steps close, so he sees Laurens’ breath shudder through him.

“Enough. Just let me touch you,” Hamilton says as he slides his hand over Laurens cheeks and neck, gripping his jaw. “Let me kiss you.”

“Yes,” Laurens murmurs as his hands slide up Hamilton’s forearms, their chests press close and foreheads touch.

Hamilton leans up enough, Laurens' face in his hands, and kisses him. Laurens sighs into the kiss, lips pressing hard. His hands tighten around Hamilton’s arms before he pulls one hand away to wrap around Hamilton’s back. Hamilton kisses Laurens over and over, lips and tongue, and his hand curving to the base of Laurens’ neck, keeping him close and tight against Hamilton. He gives apologies and ‘I missed you’ without the words. Laurens’ lips feel so familiar, his chin rough with a day’s worth of stubble, his hands and body hard and angular as any man’s would be. Hamilton realizes he had grown used to the smooth hand of Betsy, of her curves to his eye and the different sort of romance with a woman. But he has not held her like he holds Laurens now, not kissed her at all, not like he kisses Laurens. Hamilton kisses him still, a kiss for each day apart, fingertips on Laurens’ chin and he thinks only, ‘my Jack,’ thinks only of right now.

Hamilton and Laurens come to the same decision at once, their hands breaking apart to grab at the buttons of each other’s breeches in a frenzy. Laurens gets the fall front of Hamilton’s breeches down first, but Hamilton pushes Laurens’ hips back with one hand as his other work the buttons. Laurens hits the edge of the bed, just missing the trunk. Then Laurens pushes open the front of Hamilton’s breeches fully, under his shirt and grasps Hamilton’s shaft just as Hamilton finishes with Laurens’ buttons. Hamilton gasps and presses his forehead against Laurens’ as he works his hand still past Laurens’ clothing. Then he finds his goal and they both stroke each other, breath turning heavy against cheeks. Hamilton kisses Laurens again, sloppy and needful. He did not realize how much he had been aching for this – proper parlors with his future family, decorum with Eliza’s hand at a dance, and chaperones – how much he had needed the passion the two of them were able to find together.

Hamilton pulls his hand away from Laurens’ member and grips Laurens’ hips instead. Hamilton kisses him hard, pushes with both hands until Laurens gives way and lies back on the bed with Hamilton climbing over him. Laurens scoots himself back as Hamilton hurriedly shrugs out of his uniform coat, letting it fall to the floor behind him. Then he tugs more at Laurens’ breeches, moving them lower and leans down to take Laurens’ in his mouth.

Laurens gasps into a choked off sound, “Fuc – Alex… God.”

Hamilton licks and sucks, takes Laurens deep in his mouth, his hand at the base, all with less finesse than perhaps he is able. He keeps a hand on Laurens’ thigh, feels him start to shake as he reaches down and grips Hamilton’s hair. Hamilton sucks him fast, harsh and it takes very little time for Laurens to groan in the back of his throat and come in Hamilton’s mouth. Hamilton swallows the spending and sits up to look at Laurens again, Laurens’ chest heaving less and his eyes still open. 

Hamilton moves his one hand to see to himself, but Laurens slides his fingers over Hamilton’s along his shaft, whispering, “No.”

Hamilton pulls his hand away to plant on the bed, holding himself up enough for Laurens’ to work. Laurens leans up as he strokes his hand quickly over Hamilton’s length, kisses Hamilton with the taste of their intimacies between them. Hamilton breathes into the kiss, close to the edge, Laurens’ lips and hands just as heavy on him. Then Hamilton breaks over the edge too, spilling over Laurens’ fingers.

Hamilton’s hand slides down over the covers until he lies beside Laurens on the bed. Laurens turns his head, his lips again on Hamilton’s. Their deep kisses ease now, Hamilton’s lips pressing lightly to Laurens’ as Laurens dips his face against Hamilton’s, his nose pressed into Hamilton’s cheek. Hamilton puts both their breeches mostly to rights as Laurens sacrifices a pillow case for the cleaning of his hand. Then Laurens slides an arm over Hamilton’s side, presses his cheek against Hamilton’s and breathes deeply near Hamilton’s ear.

“John,” Hamilton whispers into Laurens’ neck.

“I have waited for this,” Laurens replies.

When Laurens pulls back to look at him, Hamilton sees his Laurens there once more, most of the stiff, pained expression gone. Hamilton thinks of quips about sticky sex or school boy eagerness but can say none of them, not when Laurens’ looks back at him with what appears to be relief.

Instead, Hamilton simply says. “I am here.”

 

Hamilton settles into his room quickly, the pillow case and pillow shoved under the bed for the servants to surely find later. Laurens sits in one chair as Hamilton splashes water on his face, shakes out the dust from his coat and cleans off his boots. Hamilton guesses at Laurens preferring to keep Hamilton in sight now that Hamilton is here.

They eat together in the back, family parlor, a drop-leaf table set up for two. Nora serves them soup, followed by some roasted turkey.

“You seem to have a staff of one?” Hamilton asks.

Laurens tilts his head as he blows on a spoonful of hot soup. “It is two, she and a cook. I did not see a need for a full household.”

Hamilton nods at the implication of Laurens’ desire to return to the fight sooner than hiring staff would supposedly allow.

Hamilton tells Laurens of some events of the war, what he feels safe to say under Laurens’ terms of parole and refraining from military matters. Though, in truth, who should know what they speak of in the privacy of this house? He has certainly written Laurens much that perhaps he should not have in regards to the war.

“Meade is left to be married,” Hamilton says between bites of turkey. “But you may know this. He and Harrison visited, I believe?”

Laurens nods. “Yes.” He takes a sip of his Madeira. “They were here a day.” Laurens makes an odd face. “It was strange to play host to them instead of with them.” Then he looks at Hamilton over the edge of his glass. “Much as now.”

Hamilton nods. “I hope they both return to headquarters soon.” He smiles. “And you.”

“Yes.” Laurens presses his fork flat into a piece of potato, mushing it. “I have followed the progress of a potential large exchange, many officers such as myself likely to be included.”

“I did try to prevail upon General Washington and –”

“I know,” Laurens interrupts. “Congress made an attempt as well in July. I suspect due to my father.”

“Yes.”

“But it was not to be. This one now...” Laurens glances away. “I think it far more likely and soon.”

Hamilton reaches across the table, laying his hand over Laurens’ so he looks back to Hamilton. “Good.”

After the end of the meal, the plates cleared up and the table folded back up against the wall, Hamilton and Laurens sit in the parlor with glasses of port and a fire burning in the hearth. The family parlor appears less pristine than the formal parlor at the front of the house now that Hamilton allows himself leisure to observe it more. Hamilton sees some books carelessly piled on an inset shelf, decorative ceramics pushed into the recesses. He spies some papers and charcoal in one window, a thin portfolio beside those. 

Beside him in one chair, Laurens watches the fire. He sips his port then lets his wrist hang off the edge of the chair, the glass precarious in his hand. Laurens seems more content now, quiet as he has been all day, but his smile at least looks some amount of real.

“John?”

Laurens looks toward him. “Alex?”

“You have not asked me yet.”

“Of?”

Hamilton keeps his voice level. “Of my lady.”

Laurens puts his glass down on the table and turns his head away. “You wrote, why should I ask you?”

“Would you not wish to know more of her?”

“You wrote,” Laurens repeats, “what more should I wish to know?”

Hamilton takes out the small portrait still in his pocket and places it on the table between them. “Miss Schuyler is –” Laurens pushes the portrait away, back toward Hamilton barely glancing at it. “Jack…”

“I need not see it.”

Hamilton clenches his teeth and his fingers slacken on the top of the table. “We said a wife would not come between us.”

“My wife.” Laurens head whips back around toward Hamilton with his sudden snap of words. “We said my distant, obligation of a wife would not come between us.”

“We said a wife,” Hamilton insists. “Yours or mine.”

“I said my wife. A wife I have no desire for. A wife I could do without. Not this.” He gestures at the portrait then raises his eyebrows at Hamilton. “What did you say?”

Hamilton keeps his gaze. “I said I should always care for you and a wife would not change that.” Laurens huffs and looks away. Hamilton shifts forward in his chair, his fingers on the portrait. “If you would only let me tell you of her, perhaps you will –”

“No.”

“Perhaps you will –” Hamilton tries again.

“No, Hamilton, can you please...” Laurens’ voice sounds raw, on the edge of desperate and Laurens takes two deep breaths before he speaks once more and turns his eyes to Hamilton. “I have had so little here of what I want. In these few days we have together might I just have you as my own, no one else's, no one to share you with, might I have you just for now?”

Hamilton stares at him, a pleading in Laurens’ eyes he has not seen in his countenance before. He thinks of how very little Laurens ever asks for. Hamilton pulls the portrait into his hand, hides it back in a pocket then reaches out and takes Laurens hand. “You may.”

They rise above stairs together, the cook long gone to her own home and Nora dismissed for the night. 

“Would she not have some suspicion?” Hamilton asks. “To not see to –“

“Nora knows.”

Hamilton stares. “Of?”

“Of I, of us.”

“Laurens,” Hamilton hisses in mild horror.

“Nora was kind enough to inform me that not only men have relations such as ours.”

Hamilton glances back at the stairs as if to see Nora there, a girl beside her, hand in hand. “Ah.”

Laurens nods. “Yes.”

Hamilton retires to his own room to leave his coat and boots on the chair. Then he turns through the adjoining door into Laurens’ room. Laurens watches him enter from where he stands near a bed post. His smile is real and wide and waiting.

Hamilton pushes off Laurens’ civilian coat. The two of them carefully remove buttons and place clothes on the chair and dresser. They lie together on Laurens’ blue bed, four posts and hangings around them as they never have in their headquarters and encampments of the army. They curl around each other under the heavy sheets. Hamilton kisses Laurens every place he can – neck and jaw and collar bone and chest and wrist and inner thigh – while Laurens’ hands caress every inch of Hamilton, mapping his back and brow and sides and hips and ass and ankles.

Hamilton teases and tantalizes Laurens with fingers, twisting and curling inside him, and pushing Laurens to the edge, the two of them with their legs interlocked, until Laurens pants his name, “Alex, Alex…”

Laurens drapes over Hamilton’s back, fucks him slow and deliberate and deep so Hamilton arches back off the bed, their arms interlocked and Laurens kissing breathless over Hamilton’s neck, until Hamilton begs, “Jack… oh, jack…”

They lie side by side facing each other, tired and sated and their sweat cooling in the chill of the evening with their fire burnt low. Hamilton cards his hand through Laurens’ hair, always expecting it to be longer when he reaches the ends.

“Your hair is shorter.”

Laurens’ expression falls somewhat. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Charles Town.” Laurens close his eyes. “They cut our hair.” He opens his eyes again. “Some of us, those they felt a problem or protested anything after our surrender.”

Hamilton grits his teeth, feels a rush of protectiveness and a desire to find whatever British officer dare put his hands on Hamilton’s Laurens.

“It has mostly grown back,” Laurens says mildly. “They did not go so far as to sheer it.”

“No,” Hamilton says keeping the anger from his voice. Anger will help none for a deed months past. Hamilton leans in, kisses Laurens’ lips again. “It is still beautiful.”

“No,” Laurens says quietly, his finger tips on the edge of Hamilton’s jaw. “It is you that is handsome, there in your uniform, in my hall, bringing some light to this house.”

Hamilton looks at Laurens’ blue eyes, darker than the bed around them, darker in the light of only one candle left. “I am sorry I did not come sooner.”

“You are here now.”

“Hmm, on the near eve of your exchange.” Hamilton thinks himself so selfish, wrapped around Betsy and his future with easy words of how Laurens still mattered, how Hamilton promised to still be devoted. “I should have come sooner.”

“You are here now,” Laurens repeats. Then he runs his hand down Hamilton’s brow and over his eyes, so they close. “Sleep,” Laurens whispers with a kiss to Hamilton’s lips. “We are safe here. Sleep all night.”

Hamilton smiles and keeps his eyes closed, feels Laurens’ hand settle on his neck, Laurens naked thighs close to his own. He thinks of how different this plush bed feels from their confining cot at Valley Forge, another place of relative safety in their past; how lavish it is to lie unclothed in bed with the man he adores through the night, and he sleeps.

 

For the next several days, Hamilton and Laurens settle into a sort of domestic routine. They wake each morning side by side in the same bed, near as early as they did in the army. Gentle kisses from Laurens pulls Hamilton from his rest or his own hand tracing Laurens’ features bring out smiles and open eyes. Hamilton returns to his own room to dress for the day, often in his uniform but sometimes in his one additional suit of clothes, a light shade much like lavender with a tan waistcoat.

When he chooses to wear it the third day of his stay, Laurens stares until Hamilton says his name three times.

“Why do you stare so?”

Laurens puts a hand to his lips, still staring on. “I have – that is, I have never seen you out of uniform.”

Hamilton’s lip quirks. “Yes, you have.”

Laurens smiles back, dropping his hand. “Not like this.”

The two of them breakfast together each morning in the family parlor. Nora brings them the newspaper and Laurens’ letters. They talk of the war and Laurens keeps careful track of any news of military exchanges in progress. They speak on personal matters as much as possible, of Laurens’ father under British capture, Laurens’ visit to the caverns in the Blue Mountains.

“Stunning, I must admit.”

Hamilton’s side in that sphere provides less topic for conversation as all his personal pursuits of late without Laurens have circled around his marriage, his Eliza. 

They linger at the table longer than any working day of the army. They favor coffee over tea, warm eggs over anything cold and they sit across from each other, feet touching under the table and hands brushing as they pass butter or paper or glasses.

If there is ever any reason they must part for business or social calls, they ensure to do so in the morning hours. Laurens pays a visit to his friend Jean Baptiste Ternant who fought with him in South Carolina and also languishes on parole, while Hamilton calls on Charles Wilson Peale to arrange for a portrait of himself to be painted. Peale had once visited headquarters, painting portraits for many officers. However, Eliza deemed Hamilton’s portrait unfit, looking ‘nothing like him.’ So, he most certainly needs another if his lady asks.

“I have arranged to have my portrait painted during my stay with you.”

Laurens cocks his head as he shuffles papers in his sketch book. “Mr. Peale?”

“Indeed.” Hamilton sips his tea, watching Laurens move, aligning books and hiding drawings. “I had thought a miniature since I have less time here.”

Laurens gives him an odd look for a moment then nods. “Perfectly thought.”

After any morning engagements the two of them may have had, they spend the remainder of each day together – every meal or walk or chore or charm, every minute, every hour. They sit in the parlor talking of nothing truly important, speculation on Meade’s nuptials or memories of past humor in the aide-de-camp office. Hamilton borrows books to read or Laurens deals out cards on the table between them. They sit cattycorner at the dinner table, remarking on fresh chicken and memories of dinner parties at Valley Forge. They spend more time in the house than without where they may touch hands and knee and cheek, lips closer and propriety further away. Indeed, as Laurens sits near the fire, low and just warm enough in early November, his eyes on the book at his knee, companionable silence between the two of them, Hamilton wonders if this is what marriage will be like?

However, they do at times venture out into the city. They walk arm in arm along the dusty streets, carriages rolling by and society paying them little mind as near strangers in their midst. They walk past Christ church and the capitol building but never venture inside either. They walk down to the waterfront, always busy with ships and people. 

Laurens stares out at the water, his hand low on Hamilton’s forearm. “Our navy barely fought at Charles Town,” he mummers. “Let the British walk in.”

If they do not walk the streets of Philadelphia, they sit in the back garden for an hour or so of open chill air. The garden is certainly ill kept as Laurens first told Hamilton. The flower beds hold mostly bushes and weeds, though two short trees cling near the edge of the house and appear fine in growth. With some encouragement from Hamilton, Laurens pays a local gardener to clear out the weeds and sculpt some of the bushes into more managed and pleasing shapes. The garden would certainly not be called fine but with only the two of them to sit within, it serves.

In the house, late into the evenings after supper, they often say nothing at all, only enjoy each other’s presence. Hamilton finds Laurens to be quieter in some respects, more pensive as if the burden of defeat and parole on a British leash has laid him far lower than any battle wound could do. Hamilton wonders how many other men would see capture as such a curse as Laurens. Hamilton finds himself less surprised with each day and each relating memory. Laurens always prefers to act, to fight for the cause, to defend his country or his friends; waiting and sitting and idle purists mean only failure to Laurens. Yet, Hamilton feels certain his stay with Laurens has brightened the man considerably, real smiles on his face unlike the still mask of controlled pain from when Hamilton first arrived. 

In fact, Nora stops Hamilton in the upstairs hall one day before he descends after Laurens for breakfast. She stares hard at him, something too familiar in her face. Then tells him, “I know it is not my place to say, but he is much better now you are here.” 

Hamilton wants to kiss away every frown, every distant look, and every stilted sigh of Laurens’ countenance until he is only smiles and laughter and happy arms around Hamilton once more.

Hamilton sits near Laurens every night, says things like, “when you return to the front” and “us together at headquarters” and “after this is over.”

Laurens so often replies with, “yes, I hope.”

Then when night falls once more and they cannot see well enough by candle or firelight, they return above stairs to their separate rooms to undress. When clothed only in shirts, they meet in the middle, mostly in Laurens’ larger bed, and do not rise again until morning.

 

Hamilton and Laurens visit the tailor the day before Hamilton is to sit for his portrait. Hamilton has his uniform, of course, and his set of civilian clothes. However, in the portrait for Eliza he would rather be separate of his military experience. Their life together should have little to do with his service after the war is over. Therefore, he would like her to see him as he is when they are married, not as a soldier. However, his other set of clothes is hardly fine enough by his estimation to be worthy of a portrait.

“Had you thought on a color?” Laurens asks as they enter the shop.

“I had hoped the fabrics would inspire me.”

They stop inside the door, a bell tinkling as the door closes. Hamilton looks at the numerous bolts of fabric in stacks behind the counter. The colors and patterns include every shade of the rainbow he could imagine. He smiles at some red fabric with a floral pattern. It would not match well with his hair however.

“Gentlemen, welcome.” Hamilton turns his head to the proprietor as he appears from the back of the shop. “And how might I assist you today. Do you need to be fitted?”

“Indeed,” Hamilton says.

“Both?”

Laurens shakes his head. “Not I.”

“Well then, sir.” The tailor gestures to a square block on the opposite side of the shop. “I am Mr. Gavers and if you will stand up here, sir...”

“Hamilton,” Hamilton says. “Lieutenant Colonel.”

“Thank you very much then, Lieutenant Colonel.”

“He needs a full suit,” Laurens says, standing beside the tailor as he takes his measuring tape off from around his neck. “Coat, waistcoat and breeches.”

“I am fine enough with a shirt,” Hamilton says with a wry smile.

Laurens smiles back, crossing one arm over his chest and propping up his elbow on it to rest his curled fingers against his lips. Gavers moves around Hamilton, measuring the length of his arm, his shoulders, his waist and inseam. Laurens stands a few paces away, still and quiet, watching. 

“What of blue?” Laurens asks.

“For which?”

Laurens flicks up his fingers near his lips. “Any of it.”

“Blue and red you should mean?” 

Laurens chuckles. “Green would be too drastic a difference I imagine.”

“But perhaps that could be a reason to do so?” Hamilton raises his eyebrows, half joking.

He succeeds in making Laurens smile genuinely. He shrugs once. “But should you want a lasting portrait with your fool color choices?”

“Ah, he calls me ‘fool?’” Hamilton huffs as the tailor reaches high to measure Hamilton from head to heel. “I think green should do quite well on me.”

“I think most colors should.” Laurens’ expression eases, contemplative. “Most any fabric could look well on you.”

Hamilton scoffs. “Even red?”

Laurens lips twist and he drops his one hand down to cross with the other over his chest. “Perhaps.”

“I think you too easy on me and my hair.”

“I think not.”

“There, Lieutenant,” Gavers says, stepping back from Hamilton, writing notes in pencil on a page. “I have the measure of you.”

“Do you?” Laurens and Hamilton say at once in the same amused tone. They look at each other in surprise.

Gavers chuckles once. “The measure I need, for sure. And now do take your time to choose fabrics. I can show any you would like to look at.”

Hamilton and Laurens step up to the counter, gazing at the bolts of fabric. The two of them point to various rolls, Laurens picking some grays and even a pale green. Hamilton selects some blues, a red just for the smile on Laurens’ face, and a brown close to Laurens’ dress of the first day. He dismisses a yellow with small red roses, he turns away a white as far too pale, two of Laurens’ grays remind him too much of an old man. Then he looks at the deep maroon of the coat Laurens wears now. 

He rubs his hand over Laurens’ shoulder so Laurens glances over at him. “A good color here.”

Laurens raises his eyebrows. “I should think us both falling into embarrassment if we should match.”

Hamilton stares at his hand on Laurens’ shoulder and he thinks of how the color would look very fine beside Betsy’s dark hair. He pulls his hand away and looks to Laurens’ face again. 

Laurens slides a bluish gray bolt over the counter toward Hamilton. “What of this?”

“Hmm.” Hamilton pulls out some of the fabric far enough to hold it near his face. “A good match.”

Laurens smiles. “Yes.”

Hamilton puts the fabric back down, cocking his head. He likes the color a great deal, subdued but still with that hint of blue. He realizes suddenly that Laurens must have thought of Hamilton’s eyes. Hamilton smiles to himself, his hand rubbing back and forth over the cloth.

“Sir?”

“Yes,” Hamilton says, looking up at Gavers then glancing to Laurens. “For the coat and breeches.”

“Excellent choice, sir.” The tailor picks up the bolt and puts it to the side, pinning a piece of paper to it with ‘Hamilton’ written across.

“Your waistcoat then,” Laurens says. “A red may not be so bad.”

“Perhaps not.” Hamilton smiles. “I have been told I would look well in red.”

“Oh?”

Hamilton turns his head sharply. It was Eliza who said such to him, remarking that she would love him in a red coat for the brighter it would make his hair, which she adores. Hamilton clears his throat. “Yes.”

Laurens frowns in confusion for a moment but Hamilton’s face must give the source away because Laurens’ jaw clenches and he abruptly looks down at the fabrics piled across the table. “Perhaps not red.”

Hamilton clears his throat awkwardly. “No?”

“No.” Laurens grabs for a charcoal with a thatch of white running through it. “There is this.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “I think it too dark. It would not match well.”

“Too much dark with dark hair perhaps?” Lauren says tersely. “Or with dark eyes.”

The two of them have blue eyes; it is Eliza who bears dark eyes. Hamilton feels oddly comforted in some unusual manner to know Laurens did read his letter on his coming marriage and recalled Eliza’s attributes that Hamilton wrote of.

“Or with the blue gray coat I shall have,” Hamilton says firmly. “Something with more color would do better.” Hamilton’s eyes coast over the fabrics then he spies a bolt he had not yet given much consideration. “A pink?” He pulls it out from under the pile, Gavers taking the black and red away back to the shelves.

“Pink is a fine color,” Laurens says, his face still tight and his eyes only on the fabric. “But as you said, your hair. Pink may not be as well matched, even less so than red.”

“I had thought to powder my hair for the portrait,” Hamilton remarks, unrolling some of the fabric and shifting it to lie it near the gray he chose.

Lauren raises his eyebrows, finally looking at Hamilton again. “You mention so now?”

“I am not certain.”

“And why hide your…” Laurens clears his throat. “Your red would look fine in a portrait.”

Hamilton clicks his teeth. “I would prefer something more formal that would… would do well as a gift.”

Laurens’ jaw clenches again. “I see.”

“I should look my best for…” Hamilton breathes in slowly, Laurens’ expression souring still. “I would certainly prefer a good portrait of me to have powdered hair as in the last one.”

“The last one?” Laurens asks with confusion.

Hamilton nods. “Peale was painting portraits at camp while you were away.” Hamilton cocks his head. “But mine was deemed unsuitable.”

“Oh, it was?”

Hamilton sighs. “She said it did not truly capture me when I gave it to her.”

Laurens breathes in sharply and looks down at the pink fabric again. “I do not think pink. Why should you want pink?”

“I find the pink quite well with the gray.” Hamilton touches Laurens’ hand for a moment but he pulls it away. “The pink and gray together are quite well, could be very well.”

“I think the pink a clash to your hair.”

Hamilton feels very much as if he does not even care of any color at all over another except now for the biting tone of Laurens’ voice spurning him on. “Yellow would be sickly on me, and the green not so well with that blue gray. No, I prefer the pink.”

“Yes,” Laurens looks at him sharply. “I am certain you do.”

“You think it will clash, but if you should give it a chance –”

“And what, you shall be sure to always powder and hide your hair to match this pink, never just be as yourself?”

“Certainly I will powder more after the army. In such society that I will –”

“Ah yes, in your future domestic, society life.” Laurens interrupts and shakes his head. “And you think this seductive pink best?”

“I did not say such!”

“It is pink, what else should you call it?”

“I should call it but a color and, yes, it is the best.” 

They stare at each other in silence for a long moment, the pink cloth between them. Then Mr. Gavers clears his throat and steps closer to the counter. “The pink then?”

Hamilton stares at Laurens a beat longer then turns to the man. “Yes, the pink.”

Laurens does not protest again.

When they return to the house, Nora meets them at the door, taking their hats and Hamilton’s purchase order. She says something about having ‘Jim next door’ pick up the finished suit from the tailor. Hamilton hardly hears her, however, as she walks away toward the back of the house. He keeps watching Laurens, his stiff posture and near silence since they left the tailor. Hamilton walks down the hall toward the rear parlor then stops nearer the stairs. He turns his head back and sees Laurens has not followed him.

“Laurens, you asked me not to speak of… I would do what you ask but it is difficult. It is happening to me – to us – and I would prefer to tell you, to hear you speak to me on it.”

Laurens huffs out a breath. He stands beside the hall table; his fingers perched on top, too far away. Then he turns his head to Hamilton. “Do not believe I am not angry.”

Hamilton nods, wishing he still had his hat so he would have something to do with his hands. “I expected such.”

“But I cannot be angry now.”

Hamilton sighs. “Why? Why not scream as I did? You may, please. I would rather that.”

“No. I cannot.” Laurens looks down at the table, his hands flat and his weight leaning forward.

“John…”

“I cannot waste my time with you on my anger now.” Laurens looks up again. “I will not. I have done screaming enough before.” Hamilton feels a twist in his stomach and a frantic part of his mind wants to ask Nora. Then Laurens stands up straight, hands falling to his sides. “Please do not force this from me. Just… I have you here now and I will lose you soon enough without any argument or fight.”

“You will not lose me,” Hamilton tries to say resolutely. Laurens shakes his head and looks away. “You will not lose me,” Hamilton repeats.

“Alexander, I…” Laurens’ chin tips up and his eyes drag toward the ceiling. “I know you would wish to tell me of your happiness, but it is not happiness for me and you know that.” He eyes switch back down to Hamilton. “I know you want to give me an explanation and assurance and much of me wishes to give in to such anger I have but…” He sighs heavily. “But I cannot do that now, not yet, can you not understand how…” He huffs out a breath and his body seems to sag. “How alone I have been here, and now, finally, I have you.” He laughs in an empty sort of way. “We continue to fall into these gaps of only little time together with so much more apart, and I know my faults in this as well, but I would want us to have this time now, our time.”

Hamilton swallows once, breathes in to control his reaction. Then he walks back down the hall, stops in front of Laurens and takes one of his hands. “Yes then, I will not waste our time.”

Laurens leans toward him then wraps his arm around Hamilton’s waist as Hamilton slides his other hand up over Laurens’ neck. Hamilton kisses Laurens there in the hall, as he would his future wife, in private, in domesticity, in a house that is something like their home for the days they have now.

 

Hamilton and Laurens arrive at the studio of Charles Willson Peale just after noon. 

Hamilton’s suit arrived promptly at ten, which gave Nora plenty of time to dress and powder Hamilton. Nora tutted now and then as she worked the powder over his hair and formed the rolls near his ears, until Hamilton caught her eye as she finished.

“It is only a shame,” she finally admitted.

“The powder?”

“Yes, he loves your hair so.”

When Hamilton joined Laurens’ downstairs, Laurens looked him up and down, touching the collar of his coat and his eyes lingering on Hamilton’s white hair.

Laurens said, “Every bit the proper gentleman,” and Hamilton could not tell if the statement was a compliment or not.

Now Mr. Peale, a man of average height, a thin face and likely ten years older than they two, ushers Hamilton in and sits him in a worn but cushioned chair near a pair of windows. He walks around Hamilton once, nudging the edge of the chair to shift him right and fussing with the curtains of the window. Then he picks up a stack of papers in a protfolio and sits in front of Hamilton. Laurens places himself on a couch several feet behind Peale against the opposite wall.

“I do apologize that the last portrait was not to your liking,” Peale says as he begins a rough sketch in pencil.

“My fiancé felt it did not capture what she sees in me,” Hamilton says with a sense of pride and relief at saying the word fiancé aloud.

Behind Peale, Laurens’ eyes shift away from the scene they make but he says nothing.

“Ah,” Peale says, the pencil moving and his eyes shifting up and down. “It will not do to displease the ladies, I understand. And not in your uniform now, perhaps better then to have both views of a man.”

Hamilton grins. “I thought much the same.”

“Indeed.”

Peale sketches for a few more minutes, pausing every so often to simply stare at Hamilton then returning to his page to rub away a line. Behind him, Laurens props his arm up on the edge of the settee, his expression either pensive or thoughtful, it is unclear. Hamilton thinks he looks as though he dressed for the occasion too, a deep gray to his coat and breeches with a pale blue to his waistcoat. On a New Yorker such a suit should appear somber but on Laurens – and perhaps it his shorter blond hair or the way he sits or some trick of the light – it appears shinning and ornate, hints of gold woven into the waistcoat. A resplendent southern gentleman who should be having his portrait painted now and not Hamilton, this unknown boy of the Caribbean.

“I think that study enough,” Peale says, standing from his chair. “If you would but wait a moment, I will collect my paints.”

Peale stands, leaving the portfolio on his chair. Hamilton watches him walk to the opposite wall where a tall dresser stands, Peale opening drawers. Laurens stands up from his seat and walks to the chair. He leans over to look at the sketch. He touches a corner of the page, turning it slightly. He looks up at Hamilton then back to the drawing. His lips purse for a moment then he stands up straighter.

“A likeness or a sham?” Hamilton asks.

Laurens clicks his tongue. “Not a sham.”

Hamilton frowns slightly then Laurens smiles at him. He leans over again and pulls some pages from the back of Peale’s journal. Hamilton raises his eyebrows, shooting a glance at Peale but he says nothing to expose Laurens’ subterfuge. Laurens picks up one of Peale’s unused pencils then quietly steps back to his seat as Peale turns around carrying a paint case and a folding desk much like theirs of the army. Hamilton widens his eyes at Laurens in some rebuke as he is able, but Laurens only smirks back at him, papers and pencil leaning on the edge of the couch now.

“Here we are.” Peale holds up an oval shaped piece of bare ivory. “This shall be your miniature. Is it acceptable?”

“Very much, sir, thank you.”

Peale nods, puts the supplies down on his chair and he unfolds the desk. He clicks the support bar into place them moves all his supplies and study to the desk. He does not appear to notice any missing paper or pencil. Laurens’ lips quirk up more in a minor triumph just for Hamilton to see. Hamilton cannot help a responding smile on his own face. Peale picks up his pencil and begins to sketch lines on the ivory, looking at both Hamilton and his study as he does so.

Behind Peale, Laurens also begins to sketch. He leans against the arm of the couch, the paper held in place with one hand and his other hand moving lightly over the page with the pencil. Hamilton wonders if Peale hears the mirrored sound of art in process behind him and wonders at the source or perhaps he does not care? Hamilton, stuck in place as the subject, slides his eyes between both of them, wondering how each resulting portrait shall look. He has an idea of Peale’s result having seen his own first portrait and others from Peale’s army visit. It is Laurens’ now who inspires more interest. He has seen Laurens’ sketches before and they always remain rooted in whatever moment he drew them, less formal and more of life unlike most formal art one commissions. Thus, Hamilton can only guess as how Laurens’ now chooses to capture this moment.

After fifteen minutes or so, Peale says, “Now, Mr. Hamilton, I shall begin to add some color. I understand you have remained still some time until now but it is more imperative that you do so at this juncture as any change in your posture may change the light and color.”

“I understand.”

“Should you wish to stand for a moment?”

“Hamilton is not unused to many hours of sitting with pen in hand,” Laurens says from behind Peale, hiding the paper and pencil in between himself and the arm of the couch. “I imagine he can endure.”

“Such faith in my stationary abilities,” Hamilton retorts.

Laurens cocks his head. “And others.”

Hamilton raises his eyebrows high but Peale chuckles appropriately, glancing briefly back at Laurens. “Well then, I shall proceed.”

Laurens raises his eyebrows back at Hamilton and returns his pages onto the couch arm. He takes one sheet off the top, laying it face down on the divan beside him, then begins again on a fresh sheet. Hamilton longs to ask Laurens what he draws. 

Peale holds the ivory oval in one hand as he dips his brush into his palette of watercolors with his other. Hamilton tries to see which colors Peale applies from where he sits but is at too far a vantage point for any real certainty. His back aches slightly at the unmoving position but Laurens is not wrong about many long days at work in a chair. Peale blots his brush on a cloth and picks up a finer brush, the strokes short and precise over such a small surface. Hamilton wonders at Laurens using a brush, seated where Peale is. Hamilton realizes he has never asked Laurens if his artistic inclinations tend beyond mere pencil or charcoal sketches. Peale picks up his first brush again dipping it into a color Hamilton can see from where he sits,

“And what do you think of the pink, Mr. Peale?” Hamilton asks before he can stop himself, some bit of self-righteousness in his tone and purpose.

Laurens looks up from his drawing, a twist to his lips that does not appear all together angry, merely annoyed.

Peale glances up briefly. “I think any color a man should wish in his portrait is fine by my palette.”

“You should imagine his pink with red hair instead of the powder,” Laurens quips. “Either a terrible clash or a fashion innovation any other man could not think.”

Hamilton cannot help an undignified snort of amusement. He smiles as he should not for Peale’s work but he cannot help hoping this a sign – Laurens joking, Laurens happy, not defeated or jealous or wounded.

“I may also think,” Peale says, “silence may assist in a still subject, sirs.”

Laurens’ mouth clicks shut and he seems to smile more, pleased at Peale’s serious work ethic or at being chastised like a schoolboy perhaps. Hamilton forces his eyes to the wall for a few minutes so he does not find himself smiling all the more.

Hamilton sits for an hour in silence, only the sounds of Laurens’ pencil and the clink of Peale’s paint brush on the edge of the palette. Peale stands at one point to return with a glass of water, dabbing drops into his paints and refreshing his brushes. Hamilton’s mind wanders as he keeps his body stiff and his eyes straight ahead. He thinks about Betsy – her hand in his as they turned for a dance, her hidden smile behind a cup of tea, the way her eyes light up with interest at his talk of politics, the delicate line of her jaw and how her dark eyes seem to beckon a man to fall within and love her as fierce as a storm. He thinks of Laurens, of John – how dashing he cuts a uniform, how well his seat on a horse with sword in hand, the feel of his kisses, insistent or soft in turn, his hair falling in his face in the early morning, the ocean blue of his eyes to entrance a man into obeying any request he should make.

“There.” Hamilton blinks out of his romantic musings to Peale putting his paintbrush down and rising from his seat. “I have the basics of your likeness and will now only need time to add details after this first base dries. It will be some time yet and you need not sit longer for it as I have the memory of you just as well.”

Hamilton clears his throat and stands up from his chair, joints clicking in a way that makes him feel older than a man still in his twenties. Behind Peale, Laurens folds the papers he worked upon in half and hides them somewhere within his coat.

“I thank you, sir,” Hamilton says, reaching out to shake Peale’s hand.

Peale shakes back with a nod. “In matter of payment, I felt it right to offer you a reduction in my usual fee as I did paint you before and you found the result unsatisfactory.”

“Oh,” Hamilton clears his throat awkwardly. “I did not mean to suggest such –”

“No, sir, I would prefer the quality of my work to be always at acceptable standards and thus when it may not be, to make amends in some way.”

“Ah.”

Peale nods. “If you should wish to return or send some man of yours to collect the miniature, it should be ready mid-morning tomorrow I wager.”

“Thank you.”

“Ah,” Peale says suddenly with a tone of remembering something and holding up a finger. “Let me write you a receipt.”

He turns away again, back to his drawers. Laurens walks slowly toward Hamilton, skirting around Peale’s desk and work with only a quick glance at the unfinished portrait. He stops beside Hamilton, blocking his view of the painting. Hamilton cranes his head to see around Laurens but Laurens touches Hamilton’s chin and gently pushes it back. 

“Oh no, it would not do to see the work unfinished.”

“Is that not my place to judge?”

Laurens drops his hand from Hamilton’s chin. “No.”

“And what did you draw?” Hamilton asks, his hand reaching for Laurens’ coat.

Laurens’ hand meets Hamilton’s there, the two of the reaching into the inner pocket to pull out the pages. Hamilton unfolds them and looks over each page. There are five drawings, all in some manner unfinished and rough. The first shows the entire scene from Laurens’ viewpoint, Peale in his chair drawing with Hamilton in front of them, the least complete of the five Laurens’ drew. The second is Peale alone, his head turned down toward his painting in a void on the page. The third recalls only a portion of Hamilton’s face, eyes, lips and nose. The fourth is a smattering of sketches, Hamilton’s hands, Peale’s profile, and Hamilton’s eyes again all jockeying for space on the same page, which makes Hamilton chuckle. The last page, however, instantly becomes Hamilton’s favorite as it is clearly Laurens’ version of the portrait and most finished of the set. It captures the whole of Hamilton, the top of his head down to his crossed knees. The drawing shows eyes and hair and jaw and shoulder and folded hands and crease of cloth and – unlike what Peale likely painted – Laurens’ drawing shows Hamilton’s smile, the pursing of his lips and one corner obviously trending up in an expression of wry amusement Hamilton recognizes as particular to his responses to Laurens in many instances. It seems to say, ‘this is how I see you now.’

Hamilton looks up from the drawings, likely the same expression on his face now. “And is it you or I who may keep these gems?”

Laurens raises his eyebrows. “You would want them?”

“You’ve kept all the others. Perhaps I wish for my turn.”

Laurens’ lips twitch. He looks down at the drawings for a long moment. Then he folds them once more and holds them out to Hamilton. “They are yours then.”

“I only had to ask?”

Laurens smiles, the expression oddly thoughtful. “Yes.”

Hamilton fingers the edge of the paper. “Now all I shall need is a sketch of yourself.”

Laurens’ lips part, something like surprise. Then Peale says, “Here we are.”

The pair of them turn to Peale at his words. Laurens gives Hamilton a look then walks away to leave the two alone over the private matter of payment. Peale hands Hamilton the receipt, the bill being $40 instead of Peale’s usual $56. Hamilton stares at the page, thinking of the drawing in Laurens’ pocket. Then he holds the piece of paper back out to Peale as Laurens exits the room toward the stairs.

“I wonder, Mr. Peale,” Hamilton says, his voice low. “In lieu of your offered discount, might I prevail upon you instead to paint two miniatures rather than one?”

 

Hamilton and Laurens lie close together in bed, still warm and sweaty from their carnal exertions – Hamilton crying out, scratches on Laurens’ back, the two of them rolling about so the sheets twist them together.

“I only want to do my duty,” Laurens whispers. 

“And you have, you shall still.” 

“What can be said of me here? Useless, idle.”

“Hardly idle,” Hamilton says squeezing Laurens’ ass. Laurens chuckles but his face still appears pensive. “You do your duty so now, obeying your state of parole.”

Laurens smiles, his eyes half closed. “Would you expect me to break it?”

“I expect you have more respect for General Washington than to do so.”

“Ah,” Laurens traces Hamilton’s jaw with one finger. “If he were not in command then I would run back to the front lines and risk jailing for certain.”

Hamilton smiles at him. “You cannot think yourself bereft of your duty and position merely because of capture. Do you respect other men less over their British capture?”

Laurens trails his hand down Hamilton’s neck. “It should depend upon the manner of their capture.”

“John…”

“No, I see your mind. Yet I find myself so often wishing to push forward when others crawl backward. Forced to surrender in Chares Town when I would rather –“

“Rather fight to your death?” Hamilton interrupts. “And what good dead should you be?”

“I should think my honor intact.”

Hamilton squeezes his legs tighter around one of Laurens’ so his mouth opens in a quiet gasp of unreal pain. “Your honor is as much intact as your person. Did you fight as much as you could? Did you obey your orders? Do you obey your parole now? Will you fight again once exchanged? Yes, in all cases. What more of honor do you ask? Do you think any man would call you dishonorable?”

Laurens closes his eyes. “You cannot say that I do not feel shame at such a state, however.” Then he opens eyes once more. “I wish to live up to the ideals I have espoused, fighting for freedom in all quarters. And yet, so many failures.”

“John…”

“My black regiment, Savannah, and then capture in my own state?”

“Do you neglect Brandywine or Germantown in your list of failed battles?” Hamilton gives him a look. “You cannot claim all the war as your fault and you know our position one as always on the side of disadvantage. You did not have to choose this side or this fight. Yet here you are.”

Laurens smiles, kisses Hamilton’s lips once then rolls half around at the shoulders and his head on the pillow to gaze up at the canopy. “I think your fine words are all just and you must think me repetitious in my pains.”

“I did not say so.”

Laurens gives him a sidelong look as Hamilton drums his fingers over Laurens’ bare chest. “I understand your impatience with me, I am impatient myself here.”

“I am not impatient. I am much the opposite.”

“Hmm.” Laurens rolls back so his nose nearly touches Hamilton’s. He runs his hands up into Hamilton’s hair, no more powder and all red. “I should say…” Laurens makes a face. “I wrote to General Washington of returning to the southern campaign once more when I am exchanged.”

Hamilton clenches his teeth. “I should not be surprised.”

“But disappointed perhaps,” Laurens fills in.

“I know you always desirous to fight.”

“Not so between us.”

Hamilton closes his eyes this time. “But perhaps you wished for something to pay me back with, is that so? Do you run away from me?”

“Alex….”

Hamilton opens his eyes again. Laurens said before they could not afford anger, could not afford to fight. If Laurens may keep his peace then so must Hamilton.

“We need not speak to it now,” Hamilton says, he touches Laurens shorter hair and kisses his lips. “Now we lie here in a most comfortable bed.” Laurens smiles as Hamilton kisses him again. “We are young and we are together after so long apart.”

“A year.”

“Almost.”

“Did you count?” Laurens raises his eyebrows.

Hamilton smirks. “Did you?”

Laurens nods. “Every day.” Laurens sighs and runs his hand over the muscles of Hamilton’s arm, crosses lines over his chest, paints patterns with his fingertips. “I counted myself glad to not have you in such direct harm’s way when cannons shot from the barricades at Charles Town. I counted the absence of your letters and the lack of mine. I counted the faces that were not so fine as yours. I counted the times I told myself duty first then patience. I counted the memories of your bright hair and clear eyes. I counted the nights I slept without seeing you and the mornings I awoke thinking you were somehow beside me. I counted days until now.”

Hamilton grips Laurens’ hand on his chest, then rolls himself over onto Laurens, holding Laurens’ hand against the sheets. He leans close, his lips over Laurens’. “I thought it was I with poetic prose?”

“I only tell you the truth, that I have missed you.”

Hamilton smiles. “And I have missed you like this.”

Laurens smiles – whole and happy and just like days past when they were new. He pinches Hamilton’s sides, arching up to kiss at Hamilton’s neck. “And which way is that, underneath you and naked?”

“Beautiful,” Hamilton says, “alone, smiling, precious, mine.” Hamilton kisses Laurens’ lips. “As much of you as I may touch.” Hamilton slides one hand down between them, grasping and teasing so Laurens’ breath comes quicker. “That look on your face like now, the sound of your gasps.” Hamilton shifts his hips, pushing Laurens’ legs wider so his knees bend up. 

“Alex…”

“My name,” Hamilton says, holds both Laurens’ wrists loose against the pillow, kisses him, angles and pushes himself in so Laurens moans into his mouth. “Yes, this,” Hamilton says as he thrusts slow and breathes heavier. “My name on your lips like this.”

Laurens curls his fingers down over Hamilton’s hands in his palms, grips Hamilton’s sides with his knees and whispers. “Oh, Alexander.” His voice one of passion and not pain.

 

The morning Hamilton readies to leave for headquarters and afterward Albany, Laurens receives a letter.

“I am exchanged,” Laurens says as they stand in the formal parlor waiting on Hamilton’s luggage. Laurens stares hard at the paper in his hands. “The mass exchange, I am included.”

Hamilton smiles warmly at him. “As well you should be.”

Laurens keeps looking at the paper, his lips pressing tight together.

“Laurens?” Hamilton says with a bit more firmness to his tone. Laurens’s eyes slide up to Hamilton. “It is good; it is what you hoped. You are exchanged.” He grips Laurens’ hand not holding the letter and squeezes.

Laurens smiles slowly, an expression of happiness and some astonishment, then squeezes Hamilton’s hand back.

“This means I shall see you back at headquarters all the sooner, yes?”

Laurens’ expression falls somewhat, his hand with the letter dropping to his side. “Hamilton… you know I asked the General –”

“I know.”

“And your...” Laurens clears his throat, “plans.”

“I am not leaving the army, not yet. And why should you not return to your aide-de-camp position after all you endured?”

“The fight is still in the south now. My time under parole has not changed that.”

Hamilton sighs in frustration and their hands part. “And I thought it was you desiring more of my company, not less of it?”

Laurens’ stares at him then his lip curls. “Do you think all my pain here has been due to want of you? You are not every portion of my existence.” Laurens snaps. “I have been tortured enough by inaction and need to fight for our cause. Do you think you supersede duty?”

“No,” Hamilton replies tersely. “I do not, you made that clear before.”

“And you have made yourself quite clear now where our ‘company’ stands.”

“Have I? Because you seem to not hear what I say.”

“And you seem to not understand yourself or what very clearly this means.”

“Stop,” Hamilton finally says, gripping both of Laurens’ hands, the exchange letter crushed between them. “You said before you did not wish to fight, that we did not have time.”

Laurens stares at him. “I…”

“And I am leaving today, soon.”

“Yes.”

“So, can we –“

“Yes. I apologize.” Laurens smiles. “You know me rash.”

“And you know me…” Hamilton thinks of his flaws – needy, vindictive, possessive, petty. “You know my affection for you. So please let us speak on that instead of anger.”

“Yes.”

Laurens tips his weight forward just enough so their foreheads touch. He kisses Hamilton’s lips once and nuzzles his nose against Hamilton’s cheek. He stands still, just close to Hamilton, just touching. It near breaks Hamilton’s heart.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Laurens and Hamilton pull back, fingertips still touching, to Nora in the doorway, her eyes politely on the floor. 

“Yes?” Laurens asks.

“Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton’s trunk is prepared and the carriage called for.” She chances a look up and smiles slowly at the two of them standing close together.

Hamilton feels very much as though he may blush.

“Thank you, Nora,” Laurens replies.

She curtseys quickly then turns out of the door again.

“I am positively amazed you found that woman,” Hamilton mutters.

Laurens nods. “As am I.”

They look back to each other. Hamilton breathes in slowly and Laurens squeezes his fingers. Then they both turn toward the door and walk out into the hall. Laurens carefully folds up the letter, putting it on the hall table, as Hamilton checks for his trunk and other bag near the door. Hamilton runs a hand down the front of his uniform. He has a strange pull inside him now, half to stay wrapped around Laurens and half to ride as fast as possible to Albany for sweet dark eyes.

“Laurens,” Hamilton says, with some hesitation quite unlike him but he knows what he asks. “I would like you to come.”

Laurens huffs a slight laugh. “I cannot leave just yet. My exchange must be formalized and I believe I have a matter of France to address with Congress.”

“To the wedding,” Hamilton replies without need for correction.

Laurens’ jaw clenches. He does not reply.

“I was earnest when I wrote,” Hamilton says. “My affection for you is unchanged. Surely, I have proved this. That Betsy is also in my heart does not bear upon you.”

“Does it not?” Laurens says quietly.

“No. I say it does not. It is my heart and I should know it best.” Laurens stares somewhere over Hamilton at the door behind him. Hamilton steps closer, taking both Laurens’ hands again. He does not pull away. “And I say I want you there as witness to something so important to my life and my future.”

“You cannot ask me to stand and watch someone else take you away from me, Alexander,” Laurens says bluntly, his eyes turning back to Hamilton’s. 

Hamilton stares at Laurens for a moment then nods. “Feel as you may but I have still asked you and I shall not rescind that invitation should your mind change.”

Laurens’ lips twitch but he does not speak more.

“And…” Hamilton says slowly. “I shall not be taken away, not absolutely as you think.” Laurens frowns and Hamilton continues. “Our war is not over, I am still in this service and I see more reason now that the General may allow me my wishes for command and leave.”

“Leave to… travel south?” Laurens guesses.

Hamilton smiles. “You did say duty of most importance and I have a duty to serve my utmost in the fight where the fighting is had.”

Laurens’ mouth quirks, not happy perhaps but more pleased. “Then I wish you luck in your entreat to His Excellency.”

Someone raps on the door behind Hamilton, making them both start. Two seconds later, Nora appears weaving behind them, Hamilton scooting out of her way. She answers the door and speaks to a carriage driver arrived for Hamilton. 

“We shall take your baggage, sir,” Nora says as the driver picks up the trunk and she the smaller bag outside.

As the door closes once more behind Nora, the two of them turn back toward each other at the same time.

“I have something for you,” Laurens says sudden and fast, as if to outpace himself. “I thought perhaps you may not want it, I feared you were –” Laurens shakes his head then reaches into his coat pocket. “Well, too much time in thought in near isolation may have done worse to my judgement and reason but you have been here, you are here, and as you said, proved your heart. You know all this I suppose.”

“Laurens, you ramble.”

Laurens chuckles. “Yes, I do.” He pulls his hand out of his pocket and holds out a small circular object – no, not a circle, an oval. He takes Hamilton’s hand, turns it palm up then puts the oval in Hamilton’s palm.

It is a portrait, just the size and style of the miniature Hamilton received from Peale that same day. The portrait shows Laurens – powdered hair just as Hamilton’s, pulled back tight so the unusually short style he has cannot be told, a slight smile in his expression, and clothed in his pristine uniform – Hamilton’s dashing soldier.

“I visited Mr. Peale before you came.”

“I see.” Hamilton looks up at Laurens again. “And you mean this for me?”

“I am giving it to you.” Laurens smiles hesitantly. “Even if you should not want it.”

“I want it,” Hamilton says heavily and swiftly. “I do.”

“Good,” Laurens says more assuredly. “I hope you think it a true likeness.”

“I think it perfect.” Hamilton reaches into his own pocket now with his free hand. “And I think we think along similar lines.” He holds out his hand with the second portrait of himself – gray suit, pink waistcoat and serious expression. “Take it.”

Laurens looks at the portrait then up at Hamilton’s face once more. “Hamilton, you sat for this for your… not for…”

“Take it, I said.” Hamilton extends his hand more. “This one is yours.”

Laurens takes the portrait, his fingers running over the edges. He smiles fondly down at the oval miniature then looks up at Hamilton again. “Perhaps the pink did suit you.”

Hamilton smiles. “Then I shall wear it again for you.”

Laurens smirks, his eyes ticking down to the portrait then back up again. “You did not need to do this.”

Hamilton thinks very much that he did. “I would rather be with you,” he says aloud, “even when I am not.”

Laurens huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Why must you charm me so, Alex?”

Hamilton smiles back. “Because I can.”

Laurens steps close and kisses Hamilton hard on the lips, their hands with their alternated portraits trapped between them. Laurens kisses him deep, lips possessing and pushing just enough that Hamilton taps back against the door. Hamilton slides his free hand up and around Laurens holding him in place. Laurens’ hand cups his cheek, his kisses slow and longing, his tongue gentle, his skin against Hamilton’s soft and rough at once. Hamilton thinks he will have soft kisses from Eliza and rough kisses from Laurens; he will have his wife and his friend, his lady and his gentleman, his deep dark night and his vast sunny ocean. Hamilton has both and he can keep both and nothing but death will drag Laurens away from him when Laurens still kisses him like this.

A light rapping comes again at the door behind Hamilton. Laurens’ presses a last chaste kiss to Hamilton’s lips – a promise or a compromise perhaps. Then Laurens pulls away so Hamilton’s hand drags across his back into the air between them.

“Have a safe journey,” Laurens says as his fingers curl around the portrait in his hand.

Hamilton nods slipping Laurens’ miniature into the pocket with Eliza’s. “I shall. And… and consider my invitation, if you will.”

Laurens presses his lips tight then pulls himself up taller somehow. “And may you consider that you still have a choice, that your future may take any direction.”

Hamilton nods, giving Laurens his minor defiance. “Please remember my affection for you.”

“And mine,” Laurens replies, “only for you.”

Hamilton steps forward and kisses Laurens quick once more. “Good bye, my Jack.”

“Good bye, my love.”

Hamilton turns around, opens the door and steps out into the sun. He climbs up into the waiting carriage, the driver and Nora beside it. He sits on the sun warmed black seats, looks back at Laurens standing in the doorway as the carriage door shuts. Laurens watches him, his face neutral then the carriage jolts to life. As the carriage pulls away, Hamilton no longer hears the hoof beats on the street, the busy sounds of the city, all he hears is the word ‘love’ from Laurens’ voice echoing in his ears.

**Author's Note:**

> This series is in the process of becoming a book, to keep up with the progress check out the book website [Duty and Inclination](https://www.dutyandinclination.com/) and my author [facebook page](https://www.facebook.com/DupontWrites).
> 
> And just let me remind all of you, this is not the end, it is only the beginning. Thank you for everything.


End file.
